Femanist
by Pandarius
Summary: Perhaps it was his smelly and dirty exterior, or maybe his blunt, gruff manner,—or maybe, just maybe, his extreme masculinity—but his first attempt at joining the Grand Line Women's Rights Movement was a complete failure. AU ZoSan


Summary: In order to fulfill a promise to Kuina, Zoro attempts to join the women's rights movement, however this turns out to be more difficult than he thought. It certainly isn't made any easier by an annoying chef who somehow manages to always bring out the worst in him.

AU ZoSan, rating may or may not rise, I'm not sure yet. I'll make an announcement if it does happen though so it will not be without ample warning.

This is my first real fic, and it is also unbeta'd, so I welcome constructive criticism.

Enjoy!

Chapter 1

Zoro had a dream. He knew what he had to do and he knew how to do it. Now all that was left was to act-and to succeed. He set off into the city with one goal in mind and he would walk until he found his destination. If he didn't find it, he would just keep walking. It was simple.

...Three days later, a tattered and dirty Zoro finally arrived on the doorstep of a coffee shop. Inside were only women. Zoro knew he had come to the right place.

"Um, ... sir, ..."

He glared at the waitress, and brushed past her.

"Wait, sir!" He turned around, his eyebrows bunching further together. He didn't have time for this. Three days goddamnit!

Momentarily stunned by his gruff manner, the waitress took a step back, taking in his appearance. His hair was...green. His face was prickled with what was beginning to resemble the early stages of a beard, no doubt from lack of care rather than any kind of intention on his part. He was wearing a mud-colored overcoat, which, upon closer inspection, was actually mud-_covered_. His boots were also caked with dried mud, layered with dust, and the left one looked as if it had survived a recent impact with a falling drink. He reeked of sweat and dirt. And he had swords strapped to his belt. And not just two, but three. What was such a man doing at this place, today of all days?

"Perhaps you've come to the wrong place...?" She asked, trying to keep her voice steady and polite, even though she was intimidated and frankly afraid of this psychotic looking vagabond in front of her. He was the third man to walk into the coffee shop that day, despite the fact that there was a sign outside the shop which clearly said "Suffrage Meeting. Ladies Only."

The first man had been merely asking for directions. Although, she failed to understand why he couldn't have just gone to one of the five hundred other shops nearby, instead of disturbing this one. Especially since they were busy discussing certain _issues_ that men were clearly _not_ concerned about. But he had been polite, and left immediately without making any sort of a ruckus. It was the least he could do.

The second one had not been as polite. He had been a rude, loud, and lewd man that had strutted into the shop with a bouquet of fifty roses after seeing the sign outside the door. And he was _clearly_ not a "lady". He had blonde hair swept to one side, weird eyebrows, and had been wearing a dashing—no, he was absolutely NOT dashing—suit that betrayed him as a gentleman of high society. More like a chauvinistic BASTARD. He was one of those men that believed the world owed them everything, and that they were every woman's waking dream. The kind of man that thought that he could charm any girl with some frivolous words and flowers—weeds!—and she would come running into his arms without a care in the world. Well. Not. Here. At "Amazon Lilly," only the strongest, smartest, and most independent women gathered over good coffee to discuss politics and Women's Rights. They didn't need—

Her thoughts were suddenly—rudely—interrupted as the dirty bum grunted in reply, "...Is this place called 'Amazon Lilly'?" in the voice of a Neanderthal. How it matched his appearance!

"Why yes it is, and therefore, you have no business here. Please leave!" She huffed.

"_Then this is exactly_ where I need to be." He countered, turning back and walking into the main section of the shop, his boots loudly slapping against the shining tile floor.

He didn't get far though, because he suddenly found himself facing a room full of ferocious women who were both armed and angry.

"WHO THE HELL ARE YOU!?" They spat all at once—albeit not in unison, and with a few more four letter words thrown in—before grabbing whatever was closest and lunging at the intruder.

Five minutes later, Zoro found himself sitting on his (very sore) ass outside the shop, pulling out a bent fork that was partially embedded into his forearm.

Okay, so not a particularly good first impression, but he'd had worse...much worse. Perhaps it was his smelly and dirty exterior, or maybe his blunt, gruff manner,—or maybe, just maybe, his extreme masculinity—but his first attempt at joining the Grand Line Women's Rights Movement was a complete failure.

Zoro, however, was not one to be easily discouraged, so he dusted himself off, rubbed at the sore fork-wound, and got up to make a second attempt.

"Oi! What the hell!?" He roared, storming into the shop.

A woman with long, silky black hair and golden hoop earrings blocked his way. "Leave, you chauvinist scum!" She yelled, pointing an elegant finger towards the door and craning her head back at an odd angle.

Zoro raised his brows, then shook his head. "I want to join your movement," he said earnestly, trying to keep his voice level. He stared up at her with determination, but their eyes didn't meet as she continued staring at the ceiling.

"OUT!" The woman screamed, and the angry mob scrambled to pick up the dining utensils that they had been using as deadly projectiles a few minutes earlier.

Before he could suffer another forking, Zoro gathered his dignity and fled, the door slamming behind him violently. Ducking to avoid a shoe aiming for his head, he rounded a corner and disappeared into a nearby alleyway. The shoe ended up flying straight into the face of some blonde guy wearing a fancy suit.

Zoro turned back just in time to see it happen, and smirked. Almost instantly though, the smirk turned into a pained grimace as he forcefully slammed his toe into the corner of a dumpster, denting it. He ground his teeth, muttering curses, and decided to ignore all his previous plans, instead making a beeline for the nearest liquor shop. He bought three bottles of cheap sake and found a nice park bench on which to drink away the pain, disappointment, and humiliation of the day—out of a brown paper bag of course.

Meanwhile, blinking away the blinding pain in his forehead, Sanji was already planning on how to make mincemeat out of the bastard that dared throw a shoe at him, when he happened to look up.

"Oh...!" He almost moaned at the sight of the woman standing before him. "All the roses of Heaven's Gardens could never compare to the beauty of the flower before me!" He felt a warm wetness begin to trickle from his nose as his eyes steadily fixed upon her cleavage. "What fate, that such an undeserving fool as I hath laid eyes upon thee! Oh, fair lady, grant me the honor of knowing thy beautiful name!" He pranced towards her, twirling and reached for her hand, already puckering his lips disgustingly. And promptly received the other shoe to the face.

An hour later, Sanji stumbled out of a bar, his face still bearing the crisscrossed remnants of shoe-prints, clutching at a bottle of cheap wine and sat down on the nearest bench. The other occupant of the bench gave him a glare from under his furrowed brows, before taking another swig out of a paper bag. They both reeked of alcohol, but at least Sanji looked presentable, unlike the bum sitting next to him. He casually smoothed the wrinkles out of his suit jacket.

Patting his chest, he pulled out a cigarette to help him relax. He leaned back on the bench as he exhaled the first puff of smoke and stared up at the sky. High above their heads, the rustling crowns of trees looked black against the lavender sky.

He wasn't really disappointed—he was there to give the ladies the love and attention that they deserved, not the other way around. They were perfect, beautiful creatures that could do no wrong and he was a lowly peasant who did not deserve to even gaze upon their brilliant beauty.

He blew out another puff of smoke and felt a heavy emptiness settle in his lungs, in his heart, in the pit of his stomach. No, his mood today had nothing to do with the events of the day, or even of the past week. It all went back to that day more than a decade and a half ago—the day that resulted in the most horrific and awful period of his life. He sighed, savoring the last few puffs of his cigarette.

"Trouble with women, eh?" The other denizen of the park bench grumbled, a mocking smirk pulling at the corners of his mouth.

Rage instantly started to simmer in Sanji's gut, replacing the previous melancholy, but after drinking so much wine, he couldn't muster enough anger to start a physical fight-He was a mellow drunk after all. He ground out his cigarette in the little ash bin beside the bench and raked a critical eye over the man next to him before cracking a grin and chuckling, "I assume you're speaking from experience."

The man's one visible eye widened almost imperceptibly, before his smirk grew into a good-humored smile, flashing neat rows of white teeth. He sighed, "Nah, they're all just a bunch of crazy broads."

Sanji was taken aback. The man's features changed so dramatically with the smile. The seemingly permanent scowl lines of his mouth and brow eased up, and the smelly, dirty homeless man turned into an easy-going youth. But it didn't last long—the scowl returned, and the man growled, "What, gonna crack another joke, curly?"

"Hey, my eyebrow is handsome, the same can't be said for your hair, you freak. What, did your mother accidentally drop you into a vat of radioactive-"

"Oi," The man interrupted in a bored voice. "Your pants are on fire."

Sanji jumped into the air, frantically slapping at his thighs with one hand and trying to remember what the hell he had done with the cigarette butt. The other hand was holding the bottle of wine, which he swiftly dumped over the part he feared for the most—namely, his crotch.

The smoke from his cigarette still clung to his clothes and his nose, so it took him a few moments to realize that his pants were actually NOT on fire, and never had been.

"What the..." He was about to yell at the bum for interrupting him for no damn reason when he looked at the other man, who now had a malevolent glint in his eye and a devilish grin plastered to his face.

"You fucking BASTARD!" He yelled, looking down at his pants where in his haste to put out the fire, he had poured his own alcohol on his expensive, fashionable, yet sturdy and flexible dress pants. There was a huge wet stain...right on the crotch. His face burned with humiliation, but even more so—rage. ...He was gonna kick this fucker's teeth in.

An hour later, both of them were sitting at the police station, explaining to an unamused, grey-haired deputy—who was smoking two cigars at once—why exactly they ended up destroying public property—namely, the park bench, two nearby trees, and a 20 foot section of the sidewalk—not to mention scaring the children playing in a nearby playground.

"Officer... Smoker," Sanji read off of the man's name tag, "It's all his fault," he began in a reasonable and polite tone, hoping to immediately win Smoker over to his side. He felt a strong kick to his shins under the table. He glared at the green haired bum and kicked back, harder.

The police officer gave them an unimpressed look.

"Your names?"

"Sanji."

"Zoro."

The officer sighed, "...Your full names."

"Oh, uh, Baratie."

"Roronoa."

Smoker frowned, "How the hell do you spell... never mind, here, just fill out these forms and let me know when you're done." He sighed, running a hand through his hair and walked over to the coffee machine in the corner.

While the officer was pouring himself a hefty cup of joe, taking a couple of sips for good measure and then topping it off again, Zoro took the opportunity to get his revenge—triple. He stomped his heel straight down onto Sanji's toes, and held it there, refusing to let up even when Sanji hissed in pain and started kicking at his leg with his other foot.

Realizing the futility of his current strategy, Sanji changed tactics and pushed Zoro's chair over, toppling the man. Zoro went down with a surprised yelp, crashing onto the hard concrete floor.

Two officers rushed into the room and grabbed Zoro, while Smoker himself seized Sanji by the scruff of his neck and hoisted him up into the air.

"Are you TRYING to incriminate yourself even more!?" Smoker yelled hoarsely. "Put him in another room," He ordered the other police officers, nodding his head in Zoro's direction. He roughly pushed Sanji back onto the chair, reached into his back pocket and pulled out a pair of handcuffs, cuffing Sanji's hands to the chair behind his back.

He sighed for what seemed like the hundredth time that day, and resumed his questioning. "So how do you spell that last name again, punk?"

They ended up being charged with destruction of public property and public intoxication. As punishment, they were fined a hefty sum of money and forced to spend the night in jail—in the same jail cell to boot, too. Or at least at first-it wasn't long before Smoker was called in by the officer on night watch duty, Helmeppo, to separate them-again.

A/N Thanks for reading! I don't know when the next chapter will be coming out(I haven't even started it .) but I'll try not to take too long.


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